Chapter 2
I passed through the redwood trees, fingers skimming the bark. Colorful flashes of fur sprinted past me, furry tops of ears and the occasional wet snout brushing against my legs.
Shallow breaths clouding on the night, I waited for the last few werewolves to pass, Mau and Shanley becoming mirage-like slivers as they drew deeper into the heart of Crescent Rock.
It fell quiet, like the world was holding its breath. The swish of tails, the hushed pads of paws all lost beneath a sudden veil of silence.
Darkness pressed in. Sticks snapped behind me. Warm air brushed the back of my neck.
I turned, supernaturally fast, biting back a scream as my shoulder clipped a tree trunk. A lone wolf sprinted past.
That’s it. I panted, heart beating in my chest like a war drum. It was only my angel senses fine-tuning to pick up the smallest details, the softest sounds, the subtlest shifts in energy.
I inhaled on a ten count, trapping the breath until my pulse slowed.
Without the Voices, my brain and my body bounced back quicker now, or maybe I was just getting used to the sensation of magic. About damn time, after eighteen years.
Still, I could have used the Voices’ interjections to tell me whether or not I was dealing with a straggler or a monster. With them gone…every minor scuff of a heel, every shift of a branch had the very real possibility of being something more.
I was always on edge, always looking over my shoulder. And even though the Angel of Fire, Akosua, had severed our connection in support of Chthonia, an even more twisted version of hell…
I was always waiting for her and the others to return.
I rubbed my upper arm, the spot sore and tender from knocking into the tree. For sure another bruise. It’d go right above the one I got yesterday, when I stumbled over my swifter, stealthier feet racing down the stairs to the beach.
And the one next to that matching the fading welt on my temple, when I’d given a small tug on my surf leash just to have the board come flying at my face.
This time, I simply shook it off and walked on until I reached the back of an outdoor amphitheater.
Hundreds of piercing, eager eyes landed on me.
Was every wolf from every district within their territory invited to this? One pack member’s problem was everyone’s, I guessed.
So much for a low-key entrance.
Even though the energy tore through me like a set of sharp claws and I wanted to run and hide…
I raised my chin high, picked a staircase, planted one foot in front of the other, and wove through the terraced seating.
Paying less attention to the humans sitting on the low cobblestone walls and the werewolves sprawled on the grass behind them, and focused on the more pivotal things—like breathing.
My eyes darted around. For Shanley, for Mau, for any familiar face. I found one, glaring up from a seat near the front of the amphitheater.
Chet.
The breath I’d been taking lodged in my throat.
He’d lost his fake tan. His gaze was wild, darkened by the shadow of the crescent-shaped rock I could only assume this clearing was named for.
Even dressed as he was in a full suit and tie, it was clear he’d been off the roids and out of the gym, likely kicked off the water polo team, far from the overinflated jock I’d last seen.
I could see what I’d taken from him. But no one—my hands curled into fists—no one knew what he’d taken from me. Tonight, I’d expose him for what he truly was.
Chet’s lip curled. He was out for blood too; I didn’t need to hear a single word to know that.
My gaze drifted behind him to the stage, where five people waited on thrones that had been carved out of the massive rock face.
The Council of the Moon. They almost looked bored.
While their faces wore the marks of battle—faint pocks, and fine lines—I was shocked at how young they actually were despite being considered Elders. My dad had grayer hair and more weathered skin than they did, and he was in his late forties.
Werewolves didn’t live long—something about the stress of Turning and what it does to the body: organs growing and shrinking, limbs bending and snapping. Every time they shifted it shaved another few months off their lives.
The beings in front of me… there was no way they were older than thirty, thirty-five tops. The one in the middle tilted his head, a silver scar slitting across his warm beige jaw catching in the low light. With a raised brow, he cleared his throat.
Shit. I was staring.
Trying to coach my face into something in the ballpark of neutral, I scurried down the few remaining steps, attention drifting to the other side of the aisle—finally locking eyes with Shanley, her gaze even more translucent in the starlight.
I beelined to the open seat next to her, heel skidding on a patch of moss.
Moisture dotted my upper lip, and it damn near killed me to have Chet see me sweating. I didn’t have to face him to feel how his dangerous smirk drilled into me, how every part of him had been honed into a threat.
I knew what he was thinking: keep her quiet, submissive. No chance, Chet.
The same Elder who’d given me the odd look rose from his throne.
Not a single breath, not a whisper of the wind floated on the night—just the heavy fabric of his emerald mantel sliding over the stone, as he prowled towards the front of the stage.
“Rise.” His voice echoed off the rock, bellowing across the clearing, into the marrow of my bones. In one swift movement, the entire audience rose to their feet. I staggered up, a breath too late, my cheeks hot. “Let us honor our ancestors and receive the blessing of this new moon.”
Tilting his head back, the ends of his jet-black hair skimming his broad shoulders, he let out a howl.
Those in human form raised their chins while the beasts angled their snouts.
Staring up at the stars, I swallowed a breath, and the song of the wolves erupted around me. Their howls wove together as if this was their form of worship, the chorus building, strengthening until their lungs couldn’t take it, and they fell back into silence.
“Tonight, we will hear from Shanley Galloway, Pack Leader of Santa Cruz City, District Three, and Chet Jennings, fledgling, pack to be assigned, to gather more information around the night he was Turned. Any other grievances will be discussed after, if time permits.”
Murmurs spilled and spread like water seeping through a crack in a dam. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could feel it. The franticness, the fidgets. I tugged at my cuffs, stretching out my sleeves.
The man raised his arms, quieting the crowd.
“In June, the evening of the Strawberry Full Moon, there was an altercation at Davenport Beach, resulting in a member of the Santa Cruz City Pack biting mortal Chet Jennings, which led to him Turning.” His gaze swept the assembly.
“A direct violation of both clause fifteen of the No Hunt Order, and article nine of the Werewolf Accords.”
I turned towards Shanley, trying to get a read. But she was stone-faced, her eyes fixed on the stage. Leaning back, I managed to snag Mau’s attention.
We’re fucked, she mouthed.
My stomach dropped.
“We already know who’s responsible for this.” The Elder’s dark brown stare roved the front row, landing on a Santa Cruz City Pack member a few people away from me.
Antonio ducked his head, a fierce shade of red spreading over his suntanned cheeks.
To me, Chet had always been a predator. In fact, I’d almost forgotten he was just a mortal dude before the bonfire.
And while it royally sucked that he had literal fangs and claws and some form of supernatural power now…
it was hard to hate the one who bit him.
Antonio hadn’t meant to Turn him. And Chet threw the first words, landed the first punch.
I’d fought back too that night—a couple nights, actually—I just didn’t happen to possess the gene that turned someone into a werewolf.
“As leader, Shanley will take ownership of her pack’s actions and walk us through what happened before we call witnesses and determine a resolution.” Quirking his fingers, the Elder beckoned her forward. “As the bylaws require.”
Shanley stirred beside me, her throat bobbing as she let go of Mau’s hand and trudged up the small set of stairs that led to the stage. She slid behind a podium that blended in so well with the rock, I hadn’t even noticed it at first.
“With gratitude, Elder Ivan.” Resting her forearms on the stand’s surface, she took a deep breath.
“The night of the Strawberry Moon, Chet Jennings found his way to our monthly bonfire. Still unclear who invited him or how he found out about it, but at this point, I doubt anyone is brave or stupid enough to admit it.”
It had gone so eerily still, even the air felt tighter—as if everyone had sucked in a breath and was holding it in.
“Not only was Chet a bother to my pack—he was a dick to my guests, crossing lines from the moment he arrived.”
“Why were mortals invited to this gathering in the first place?” the woman on Ivan’s left demanded. She jutted out her hand, chunky emeralds and sapphires glinting from the rings on her fingers, her skin as dark as the midnight sky. “This situation could have easily been avoided.”
The others nodded.
“You’re right, Elder Jesalynn.” Shanley dipped her chin. “As a result, we’ve postponed any future large gatherings.”
“It’s a step,” Jesalynn said, glancing at the Elders, “but these events need to be outlawed completely.”
Aside from Ivan, who narrowed his eyes at something in the distance, the remaining three mumbled their agreement. I resisted the urge to turn around to see what he was so interested in—I owed my friend my full focus.